The Classic Food of Northern Italy

By Anna Del Conte

“With this book you will not only be able to cook authentic Italian food, you will also be able to go on an exciting journey of discovery throughout the whole of Northern Italy” – Delia Smith

The original edition of ‘Classic Food of Northern Italy’ in 1996 won both The Guild of Food Writers Book Award and the Orio Vergani prize of the Accademia Italiana della Cucina. In this updated edition, Anna Del Conte revisits classic dishes to show the best of northern Italian cuisine – both rustic and sophisticated.

In this collection of over 150 recipes Anna has chosen the very best ideas sourced from acclaimed restaurants, elegant home kitchens, rural inns and country farmsteads. Many of the traditional dishes may not be familiar, such as flatbread made with chickpea flour, Ligurian Ciuppin or macaroni pie in a sweet pastry case, but she also presents definitive versions of popular dishes such as Pesto, Ragu and Ossobuco. Her recipes are thoroughly researched and tested; she provides the home cook with a trusted and essential companion. This timeless cookbook is the quintessential bible for very kitchen.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins UK
• Release date: Feb 15, 2018
• ISBN: 9781911595854

Anna Del Conte

Anna Del Conte is widely recognised as the doyenne of Italian cooking. Her books include Italian Kitchen, Cooking with Coco, Gastronomy of Italy and Anna Del Conte on Pasta. The original edition of Classic Food of Northern Italy in 1996 won both The Guild of Food Writers Book Award and the Orio Vergani prize of the Accademia Italiana della Cucina. In 1994 she won the prestigious Premio Nazionale de Cultura Gastronomica Verdicchio d'Ora prize for dissemination of knowledge about authentic Italian food. She was also awarded the Guild of Food Writers Lifetime Achievement Award in 2011. In 2016 Anna appeared on the BBC programme The Cook Who Changed Our Lives with Nigella Lawson, which won 'Programme of the Year' at the Fortnum & Mason awards 2017. Anna lives near her family in Dorset.

Book preview

LOMBARDIA

Gastronomically speaking, I am convinced that Lombardy is the most interesting region of Italy. You might well think, ‘She would say that, being Milanese,’ but I have tried to dispel any feelings of chauvinism before coming to this conclusion. And, after all, ‘interesting’ does not necessarily mean ‘best’.

There are nine provinces in Lombardy, and there are nine different cuisines. In the two years prior to finishing this book I have been all over Lombardy, visiting various towns, many food producers and, of course, eating my way from Valtellina in the North to the River Po in the South, and from the eastern bank of the Ticino river in the West to the western bank of Lake Garda in the East. The rustic polenta taragna from the mountains behind Bergamo in the North is miles away from the aristocratic elegance of the ravioli di zucca of Mantua, ravioli stuffed with pumpkin, amaretti and mostarda di Cremona and heightened by a splash of Grappa. The bresaola cured in the caves of Valtellina, with its clean taste of beef, redolent of the German heritage, is another example of the characteristics of that northern area, as is the smoked salame made from venison and beef.

Valtellina is the longest Alpine valley, stretching eastwards from the northern shores of Lake Como to the Stelvio peak, 3,500 m/11,500 ft high. This spectacular valley was loved by Leonardo da Vinci, who even mentioned the good osterie (inns) you can find along the route. As in other northern valleys the food is that of mountain people. The home-made pasta, pizzoccheri, is made with buckwheat flour, a grain that grows up to 800 m/2,600 ft. It is layered with potatoes and cabbage, locally grown, and dressed with bitto, a local cheese, and the magnificent local butter.

Another local cheese used a lot in cooking is casera, a semi-hard cheese with that unmistakable flavour of the cow-shed. With it the locals prepare sciatt, a sort of fritter made with buckwheat and white flour to which shredded casera and Grappa are added. The best sciatt I ate were made at the delightful Hotel della Posta in Sondrio, the capital of Valtellina, where with Philippa Davenport I spent a gastronomic week as guests of the local Chamber of Commerce. The most enjoyable thing, after the sciatt, was the time spent with the owner of the hotel, Renato Sozzani, talking food and eating the splendid meals he provided. He is the author of a book on the food of the valley, a real connoisseur, the sort who muses with nostalgia over past meals such as the pizzoccheri eaten on, say 6 November 1975, which were better than the ones he had on 14 January 1984. The Italian author Prezzolini compares the gastronomic memories of the Italians to the theatrical memories of the British, who can compare the production of a 1959 Hamlet with that of 20 years later.

The dairy products of Valtellina are especially good because of the pasture on which the cows graze, and also because of the particular breed of cows. They are the least cow-like cows I know; they are small, strong, nervous and quick as they move uphill from the valleys, where they spend the winter, to the Alpeggi, the meadows high in the mountains where they stay from June to September.

In fact, all Lombardy is renowned for its dairy products. The list of local cheeses is long and varied, from a soft sweet stracchino (one of my favourite cheeses, especially when eaten with mostarda di Cremona) to the piquant gorgonzola di montagna, the old-fashioned gorgonzola beloved of cheese connoisseurs. The creamy mascarpone from south Lombardy has conquered the world under the ubiquitous guise of tiramisù. But the real mascarpone, and not the UHT long-life product that travels the world, bought in situ and available only during the winter, must be enjoyed neat, just as it is, in all its virgin purity. That was how I enjoyed the mascarpone and the ricotta piemontese that a woman brought to our flat in Milan every Tuesday during the autumn (fall). She was dressed all in black, which contrasted sharply with the whiteness of her wares, wrapped in immaculate muslin on a large flat wicker basket. The mascarpone and ricotta we bought were weighed on her steelyard, placed on a plate and carried to the kitchen to be served and finished that same day.

The flavour of these cheeses lingers in my memory, as does that of the herbs and wild greens brought to the house during the spring by Lina. Lina came from nearby Segrate, now a spaghetti junction of motorways next to the asphalt jungle of Linate airport. Lina’s baskets were overflowing with borage, sage, dandelions, nettles, sorrel, and masses and masses of parsley.

As the best basil comes from Liguria, so the best parsley comes from Lombardy. I can still remember the taste of the salsa verde made every Monday to go with the lesso (boiled beef). I hardly touched the beef, but gorged myself first on the deliciously tangy salsa verde and then went on to savour the sweet piquancy of the mostarda di Cremona, the other accompaniment to the lesso.

For many years I was sure that the best local dishes were all to be enjoyed in winter, probably because I have spent more time in Lombardy during the winter months. But then, in 1993, I was in Pavia and the vicinity in August and September, and I discovered a world I had forgotten. The beautiful large yellow sweet (bell) peppers of Voghera are served grilled (broiled) in an antipasto or used to make one of the freshest and most colourful risotti. The river shrimps are also used in a risotto, or just boiled and eaten like that, with lemon juice. And the frogs, fried whole (headless of course), make the most succulent and crunchy antipasto I know. Alas, they are rapidly disappearing along with the river shrimps, which survive only in some private estates.

I watched frog fishing one hot August afternoon, alongside the canals of the rice paddies in that flat country, geometrically divided by lines of Lombard plane trees that remind one of a Mondrian panting. It is a still, hazy countryside, silent apart from the continuous screeching of the cicadas and the buzzing of insects. Men with very long rods stood silently on the banks of these tiny canals, looking at me disapprovingly in fear that my presence would frighten away their prey. But the catch was small, hardly enough even for a risotto, one of the men told me disconsolately.

The fishermen fishing in the lakes usually have better luck. I was told that the lakes are less polluted now than they were a few years ago. At the trattorie beside the lakes perch and tench have come back, to be served in many ways, the traditional being a cotoletta – breaded and fried in butter. Butter, which Julius Caesar is said to have eaten for the first time in the Po valley on his return from the Gallic wars, is still the right cooking fat for traditional dishes. I felt very humbled when in Casteggio, near Voghera, at the Trattoria Da Lina I asked if their delicious risotto with (bell) peppers was made with olive oil. Lina, the attractive owner-chef, looked at me in bewilderment. ‘Oil? Certainly not. This is an old local recipe.’ I didn’t dare to tell her that I, a Lombard, make an excellent risotto coi peperoni with oil.

Olive oil, up to the Second World War, was only used by well-to-do families to dress salad, instead of the more plebeian rape-seed (canola) oil or walnut oil, which was otherwise used to polish furniture. After this, the walnut trees of Lombardy were all felled to make enough furniture to replace that destroyed during the war. Because of this the Lombards began to use olive oil more extensively.

Another strong influence was given after the war by the Tuscan restaurateurs, who opened their trattorie, with the flask of Chianti on the table, just as they did in the fifties in London. Then, in the sixties, the southern labourers came north with their Mediterranean diet, and the Lombards began to eat and enjoy the food of southern Italy – healthier, yes, but less varied. Some took up aubergines (eggplant) and rocket (arugula) and forgot the sweet onions of Brianza, the deep-flavoured Savoy cabbages, the rich pumpkins of Mantua and even the earthy-tasting potatoes that Alessandro Volta – he of voltage fame – had brought from France and grown first on his land in north of Milan.

But these good things are not totally forgotten. Italians are too chauvinistic where food is concerned. Lombards still believe that the best salame is the salame of Varzi in southern Lombardy, and that the best luganega is made in and around Monza. Not long ago I visited an artisanal factory making pork sausages where the luganega was still flavoured with wine and Parmesan, as in the old days.

In Milan you can enjoy some of the best Lombard cooking. After years when the local cooking seemed to be swamped by the invasion of chefs from Tuscany, Naples, Bologna and Puglia, I find that now Milanese and Lombard cooking, with its rich cazzoeula, its polpette and its risotti, is triumphantly back on the menu.

I remember talking about this to my good friend and mentor, the late food historian Massimo Alberini. He felt very encouraged by the turn taken by the cooking in restaurants. He was quite sure that there is a strong renaissance of traditional regional cooking, which is going to stay. The lovely thing about Alberini was that in spite of his long memory of the food of the past, he had good words to say about the present state of affairs. He pointed out to me the wealth of exotic ingredients available now and on display in the Milanese food shops. Japanese-inspired dishes sit next to calzoni from Puglia, gravad lax from Sweden or caponata from Sicily.

Yet the bulk of the most popular dishes are from old Lombardy, very similar to the dishes that were sold in Zanocco, our local delicatessen, now defunct, whose prosciutto was reputed to be even better than that of Peck, the most famous Italian deli. I remember the ritual of the daily shopping with my mother, who unlike most of her contemporaries used to go herself a fare la spesa. She used to say that, ‘un buon pranzo comincia nel negozio’ (a good dinner begins in the shop), and off we went to be fêted by the local shops. To me it was just like stepping on to a stage. First, Signora Bianchi in Via Montenapoleone (just opposite where we lived in Via Gesù) who presided, with her crinkly hair à la Queen Mother, over her bread, sweet breads, biscotti, focaccie and tortelli. Then Zanocco, where chubby Arturo always gave me a slice of prosciutto, and then to Pasini the grocer, my favourite stop. In those days, when food was not prepacked, a grocer’s shop was the most intense experience for the sense of smell. The greengrocer in Via Borgospesso, on the other hand, was a delight to the eyes with its assortments of fruit and vegetables which quickly told you which month it was. And just further on at the corner of Via Spiga there was the man selling calde arrosto (roast chestnuts). I am sure I learnt how to shop from those early days. As the late Jane Grigson so aptly puts it in her Fish Cookery, ‘Children are coloured indelibly by their mother’s expertise – or lack of it. Conversations with butcher, baker, nurseryman, are picked up by a pair of ears at counter level and stored in the infant lumber room.’

Somehow my fondest memories of Milan are all autumnal, unlike those of Stendhal, who has described Lombardy mostly in the summer. Let me borrow some lines from Stendhal, who loved Lombardy, its food and its women, lines that are very evocative of the varied appeal of this region. ‘We are at the top of the hill; to the right a splendid view: fertile plains and two or three lakes; to the left another splendid view, which in detail is the opposite of the other … This beautiful Lombardy, with all the luxurious appeal of its greenery, its riches and its endless horizons.’

Cipolle Ripiene

Stuffed Onions

Serves 4

4 Spanish (Bermuda) onions, about 225 g/8 oz each

Salt and freshly ground black pepper

60 g/2 oz/4 tbsp unsalted butter

180 g/6 oz minced (ground) veal

30 g/1 oz mortadella, finely chopped

4 tbsp freshly grated Parmesan

1 egg

2 tbsp Marsala

2 tbsp dried white breadcrumbs

120 ml/4 fl oz/½ cup meat stock (here)

I think that every cook in northern Italy has his or her favourite way of stuffing onions. This is how onions were usually stuffed in my home in Milan. The sweetness and crunchiness of the onion cups are a pleasantly contrasting foil to the rich stuffing.

Wash the onions and plunge them into a large saucepan of salted boiling water. Boil for about 20 minutes, until you can easily pierce the onion with the point of a knife. Drain and leave to cool a little.

Peel the onions; you usually have to remove two or three layers of skin as well. Cut each onion in half around its ‘equator’ and remove the centre. Make 12 cups with the larger onion halves and arrange them side by side in a buttered ovenproof dish.

Now prepare the stuffing. Chop the inside of the onions to the size of grains of rice. I suggest you do this by hand and not in a food processor, which would reduce the onion to a pulp and extract all the juices.

Heat half the butter in a smallish frying pan (skillet). Add the veal and sauté until the meat has lost its raw colour. Add 8 tbsp of the chopped onion and stir well (keep the rest for another dish). Now mix in the mortadella, season with salt and pepper to taste and fry the lovely mixture for 2 minutes or so. Transfer the mixture to a bowl and add all the other ingredients, except the stock and remaining butter. Mix thoroughly and then taste to check whether you need to add a little more salt and pepper.

Heat the oven to 180ºC Fan/200ºC/400ºF/Gas Mark 6.

Fill the onion cups with the mixture and place a nugget of the remaining butter on top of each onion. Pour the stock over and around the onions. Bake for 15 minutes, then turn the heat down to 160ºC Fan/180ºC/350ºF/Gas Mark 4. Baste the onions with the juices, cover the dish with foil and bake for a further 30 minutes or so. Serve warm or at room temperature.

Serves 4 as a first course or 3 as a main course

4 shallots, very finely chopped

60 g/2 oz/4 tbsp unsalted butter

Salt and freshly ground black pepper

1.2 litres/2 pints/5 cups vegetable or light meat stock (here)

300 g/10 oz/1½ cups Italian risotto rice, preferably Carnaroli

150 ml/5 fl oz/⅔ cup dry white wine

250 g/9 oz gorgonzola piccante or di montagna, cut into small pieces

A lovely bunch of fresh flat-leaf parsley, chopped

This old recipe from Lombardy is for the quintessential creamy risotto, yet the flavour is unexpectedly piquant. The cheese used must be real gorgonzola and not Dolcelatte, a new type of cheese created by Galbani for the British market, which does not have enough oomph. Parmesan is never served with this risotto.

Put the shallots and the butter in a large, heavy-based saucepan. Add a pinch of salt to release the moisture in the shallots, thus preventing them from browning, and sauté gently for about 7 minutes or until soft and translucent, stirring frequently.

Meanwhile, heat the stock in a separate saucepan to simmering point. Keep it simmering all through the cooking of the rice.

Add the rice to the shallots and stir well, coating the grains in the butter. Sauté until the rice is partly translucent. Turn the heat up and pour over the wine. Let it bubble away, stirring constantly, and then begin to add the simmering stock little by little, in the usual way for a risotto.

After 15 minutes, mix in the gorgonzola. Stir constantly until the cheese has melted and then continue cooking the rice, adding the rest of the simmering stock little by little. If you have used up all the stock use a little boiling water to finish the cooking.

When the rice is al dente, season with plenty of pepper. Taste and, if necessary, season also with salt, although the saltiness in the cheese and stock may be enough.

Transfer to a heated bowl and sprinkle with the parsley. Serve immediately.

Serves 6

For the pasta

200 g/7 oz/1¾ cups buckwheat flour

Approx. 100 g/3½ oz/scant 1 cup flour, preferably Italian 00

1 tsp salt

1 large (US extra-large) egg

Approx. 120 ml/4 fl oz/½ cup warm milk

For the dressing

225 g/8 oz potato, cut into cubes

Salt and freshly ground black pepper

300 g/10 oz Savoy cabbage, cut into 1-cm/½-in strips

75 g/2½ oz/5 tbsp unsalted butter

1 small onion, very finely chopped

1 garlic clove, very finely chopped

6 fresh sage leaves, torn into pieces

150 g/5 oz fontina, cut into slivers

75 g/2½ oz/scant 1 cup freshly grated Parmesan

Until 20 years ago, pizzoccheri were only eaten in Valtellina, an Alpine valley running east from Lake Como. Although they were mainly eaten by the locals, pizzoccheri were also consumed by the hordes of skiers who, every weekend, go up to the slopes and down again, thus burning up the energy derived from the huge quantities of pizzoccheri ingested at every meal. But now pizzoccheri appear at smart hostesses’ dinners, on the menu in restaurants in Milan and further afield, and are even produced industrially.

Pizzoccheri are made from buckwheat, the only cereal that can grow in mountainous regions. The acrid-smoky flavour of buckwheat, which used to be despised by our grandparents because of its association with poverty, has now become an emblem of the good earthy food appreciated by gourmets.

Centuries ago, buckwheat was grown in all the Alpine regions and both pasta and polenta were made with it. Then maize (corn) arrived from the New World and supplanted the old staple. Soon polenta was being made with maize, and pasta, imported from further south, was made with white flour. Nowadays buckwheat is only grown in Valtellina and Carnia, in the eastern Alps.

When I was in Valtellina researching for this book I saw pizzoccheri being made in the ideal setting and by the ideal maker. Laura, the maker in question, is a dark local Ceres, living in a house surrounded by fields where cats, dogs and horses roam happily around. On the way there we drove through some fields of buckwheat. It is quite an unimpressive plant, with heart-shaped leaves and a tall reddish coloured stem carrying the dark seeds. Laura had just had a baby, so she seemed to knead and roll the dough with an even more gentle and loving movement.

In the local tradition the dinner consisted of a large platter of different local salami, then a larger platter of pizzoccheri, followed by crostata – jam tart, the most usual country sweet. Perfect. We could gorge ourselves on pizzoccheri, which oddly enough are not over-filling; nourishing, yes, but you certainly do not feel blown up after two serious helpings. I had many excellent plates of pizzoccheri after that, but none so perfect as those made by Laura. And I was set to wondering how much the atmosphere can influence the palate.

The cheese traditionally used in this dish is bitto, a local cows’ milk cheese which has a complex herby flavour and which melts very well. After a certain amount of trial and error I have decided that a good substitute is fontina. Fontina can be bought in specialist Italian shops or top supermarkets. If you cannot get it, buy a French St Paulin which has good melting properties and a not too dissimilar flavour.

Buckwheat flour is sold in most health-food shops, though I have noticed that it varies considerably from one brand to another. Some buckwheat flours are easier to knead than others, so you might have to vary the amount of white wheat flour. The pasta here is made with a dough enriched with egg and milk, whereas originally the flours were only blended with water.

Pizzoccheri are made with Savoy cabbage, Swiss chard or green beans, whichever are in season at the time. I have also successfully used Brussels sprout tops and spring greens (collards), whose bitterness is a good match for the smoky earthiness of the pasta. You can also use a mixture of these vegetables.

First make the dough. Mix together the two flours and the salt on the work surface. Make a well in the middle and break the egg into it. Using a fork, begin to bring in the flour from the wall, while slowly adding the milk. Do not add all the milk at once, since you may not need all of it. Or, depending on the absorbency of the flour and the humidity of the atmosphere, you many need to add a little warm water as well, or a couple of tablespoons of white flour. The dough should be soft and elastic, although it is much stickier and wetter than a dough made with only white flour and eggs. Knead for 5 minutes and then wrap the dough in a linen towel or cling film (plastic wrap) and let it rest for a minimum of 1 hour. I have sometimes made my dough the day before and kept it overnight in the fridge.

When the time comes to cook the dish, roll out the dough, either by hand to a thickness of about 2 mm/1/12 in, or using a hand-cranked pasta machine, pushing the strips through the rollers up to the last but two notches. You have to flour the strips quite often when rolling them out. Cut the rolled-out pasta into pappardelle-size noodles, about 2 x 10 cm/¾ x 4 in. Lay the strips out on clean cloths, not letting them touch each other. (You can prepare all this a day in advance. The next day the pizzoccheri will be dried, but just as good.)

Put a large saucepan containing about 4 litres/7 pints/4 quarts of water on to heat. Add 1½ tbsp of salt and the potato and bring to the boil. After 10 minutes or so, when the potato cubes begin to soften at the edges, throw in the cabbage and continue cooking for about 5 minutes, until the cabbage has lost its crunchiness. Now it is time to slide in the pizzoccheri. Mix well and cook for 5 minutes after the water has come back to the boil.

While all this preparation is going on, put the butter, onion, garlic and sage in a small heavy-based pan and cook gently, stirring very often and letting the onion become pale gold. Fish out the sage.

Heat the oven to 160ºC Fan/180ºC/350ºF/Gas Mark 4.

Butter a shallow ovenproof dish. When the pizzoccheri are done, drain the whole mixture in a colander. Spoon a ladleful or two of the pasta mixture over the bottom of the dish and add a little of the two cheeses, a little of the onion-butter sauce and plenty of pepper. Add more pasta and dress it again in the same way until the whole lot is dressed. Toss thoroughly. Cover with foil and put in the oven for 5 minutes, so that the cheese will melt properly.

Serve with plenty of red wine from the Valtellina, such as a Sassella or a marvellous Inferno, if you can find them!

Risotto alla Milanese

Risotto with Saffron

Serves 4

1.2 litres/2 pints/5 cups home-made meat stock (here)

1 shallot or ½ small onion, very finely chopped

60 g/2 oz beef-marrow, unsmoked pancetta or fatty prosciutto, very finely chopped

75 g/2½ oz/5 tbsp butter

350 g/12 oz/1¾ cups Italian risotto rice, preferably Carnaroli

120 ml/4 fl oz/½ cup red wine

⅓ tsp powdered saffron or 1 tsp saffron threads

Salt and freshly ground black pepper

60 g/2 oz/⅔ cup freshly grated Parmesan

In my previous books I have written at length about this favourite dish of mine, one of the pillars of Milanese cooking. So here I’ll skip the preamble and go straight to the recipe.

Like all over-popular dishes, risotto alla milanese (known in its native city as risotto giallo, or yellow risotto) has been the subject of endless variations. This is my recipe, which has been in use in my family for generations, or at least for as long as my father (who would now be 113) could remember. He insisted that risotto giallo was made like this. The only liberty I am taking is to suggest the use of pancetta instead of bone-marrow, which is difficult to come by these days. It is not the same, but a nice fatty unsmoked pancetta is quite a good substitute. Prosciutto can also be used, but it must be fatty and not the fatless, and far less tasty, prosciutto one usually gets in this country. (See my tips on prosciutto.)

If you can, use Carnaroli rice. Otherwise use a good quality Arborio. The better the rice, the longer it takes to cook. In Italy we cook Carnaroli for 18 minutes from the time you begin to add the stock. Arborio will take 1 or 2 minutes less.

Bring the stock to simmering point and keep it at a very low simmer.

Put the shallot, beef-marrow (or the substitutes) and 60 g/2 oz/4 tbsp of the butter in a saucepan and sauté until the shallot is soft and translucent. Add the rice and stir until well coated with fat. Pour in the wine, boil for 2 minutes, stirring constantly, and then pour in 200 ml/7 fl oz/scant 1 cup of the simmering stock. Cook until nearly all the stock has been absorbed and then add another 150 ml/5 fl oz/⅔ cup of stock. The risotto should cook at a steady lively simmer. Continue adding the stock in small quantities like this, waiting for one to be nearly all absorbed before adding the next.

About half-way through the cooking add the saffron dissolved in a little hot stock. When the rice is ready – it should be soft and creamy, not mushy or runny – taste and adjust the seasoning.

Draw off the heat and add the rest of the butter and 3 tbsp of the Parmesan. Leave to rest for a minute or two and then give the risotto a good stir. This is what we call the mantecatura, the final touch, to make the risotto even creamier. Serve immediately, with the rest of the cheese handed separately.

illustration

Makes about 60 ravioli, enough for 5 to 6 people

For the pasta

400 g/14 oz/3½ cups Italian 00 flour

1 tsp salt

2 large (US extra-large) eggs

1 tbsp oil

For the stuffing

1 tbsp sultanas (golden raisins)

1 tbsp chopped candied citron

2 tbsp dry Marsala or dry sherry

100 g/3½ oz amaretti di Saronno

1 tsp grated dark (bittersweet) chocolate

75 g/2½ oz/scant 1 cup freshly grated Parmesan

1 large (US extra-large) egg

3 tbsp fine white breadcrumbs

4 tbsp mascarpone

Salt and freshly ground black pepper

For the dressing

75 g/2½ oz/5 tbsp unsalted butter

1 fresh sage sprig

60 g/2 oz/⅔ cup freshly grated Parmesan

Crema, a small town in south-east Lombardy, boasts two things, and rightly so: a splendid square with the Duomo and a Renaissance arcade, and these tortelli. For years I had wanted to go to Crema, more for the tortelli, which are made nowhere else, than for the square, the likes of which are two a penny in provincial Italian towns. The best tortelli, I was told, were made by Maria Pia Triassi at her restaurant, the Cral Ferriera, in the outskirts of the town. And so that is precisely where I went, and I was certainly not disappointed.

The tortelli di Crema are typical of the best in the cooking of southern Lombardy, where the flavours of the Renaissance are still strongly discernible. People there seem to keep the gastronomic glories of the past in their repertoire more than anywhere else. The subtle taste resulting from the combination of sweet and savoury is very well defined in this dish.

Maria Pia uses a special kind of amaretti that contain a small amount of chocolate. Being a perfectionist she warned me against using other kinds of amaretti, but I liked tortelli di Crema so much that I was prepared to experiment with other amaretti. And this is my adaptation of her recipe.

This is not a dish you can prepare in half an hour, nor is it a dish you can serve to anyone. It has an unusual flavour that some people might not appreciate.

I make small ravioli, which is the traditional way to make them. Nowadays most restaurants, especially in Britain, serve very large ravioli, two or three per person. This is to save labour, but the taste of the ravioli changes, often for the worse, due to the difference in proportion between stuffing and pasta.

The pasta for the tortelli di Crema is a ‘poor man’s’ pasta, i.e. made with eggs and water. Because it is very soft it goes better with the stuffing. But if you are more familiar with the more common pasta emiliana containing only eggs, make this by all means. Use amaretti di Saronno; they have the right amount of bitter almonds for this dish.

First prepare the stuffing. Soak the sultanas and the citron in the Marsala for 20 minutes or so.

Put the amaretti in the food processor and process to fine crumbs. Turn into a bowl and add all the other ingredients. Mix very thoroughly – a job best done with your hands. Add also the sultanas, citron peel and Marsala. Season with salt and pepper to taste. Cover the bowl with cling film (plastic wrap) and put in the fridge to chill. (It is much easier to work on chilled stuffing.)

While the stuffing is chilling, make the pasta. Put the flour and the salt on the work surface. Make a well and break the eggs into it. Add about 7–8 tbsp of lukewarm water. Beat with a fork, gradually drawing the flour in from the walls of the well. When most of the flour is incorporated, begin to knead with your hands. (You can also do this in a food processor.) When you have properly kneaded the dough, wrap it in cling film and leave aside to rest for at least half an hour.

After a rest for the dough (and for you, perhaps) give the dough a good kneading, and cut off about one eighth to begin work on. Keep the rest of the dough well wrapped in cling film. Roll out a sheet of dough up to the last but one notch of the pasta machine, or, if you are making the pasta by hand, to a thickness of about ½ mm/1/50 in.

Trim the dough to a strip 10 cm/4 in wide. Dot with generous teaspoons of stuffing, at intervals of 5 cm/2 in, all down the strip, setting the stuffing 2.5 cm/1 in back from one of the long edges in a line parallel to the edge. Fold the other long edge over the stuffing to join the first edge. Trim the joined edges with a fluted pastry wheel and then, with the same wheel, cut across between each mound of stuffing. Separate the squares, squeeze out any air and seal the ravioli all around. If necessary, moisten your fingers to seal the edges better. Spread the ravioli out on clean dry linen towels, making sure they do not touch, to prevent them sticking. Making ravioli sounds very difficult when you read the instructions, but it is quite easy once you are actually making them.

Proceed to work on the next eighth of the dough, and then the next, until you have no stuffing, or pasta, left. If you are not cooking the ravioli straight away, leave them to dry, turning them over two or three times so that they will dry evenly.

Put a large, wide saucepan full of water on the heat. Bring to the boil and then add 1 tbsp oil and 1½ tbsp salt. Gently drop in the ravioli. Stir gently and bring the water back to the boil. Lower the heat so that the water does not boil too fiercely – otherwise the ravioli might break – and cook until al dente, about 2 to 5 minutes depending on the thickness of the dough and the dryness of the ravioli. The best way to tell if they are done is to cut a bit off the edge